The Great Cow Dilemma
by LullabyKnell
Summary: Side Story to 'Unnoticeable'. This is the story of how Rorimac Brandybuck got drunk, stole a cow, tried to marry it, and nearly started a feud between several families which only didn't happen because his grandmother stabbed a haunted chair. Bilbo Baggins is done with everything about this and Paladin Took doesn't want to be here.
1. Mister Mowell Had A Cow

Disclaimer: Don't own it; not profiting off it.

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><p><em>AN: If you haven't read my story Unnoticeable until up to about Chapter 20, then this will probably not make as much sense as if you have. This is an extension of that universe and meant to be a side story to it. So go read Unnoticeable, at least up to Chapter 20, then come back. It's good, I promise._

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><p><strong>Chapter One: Mister Mowell Had A Cow<strong>

_This is not the story that Bilbo tells Ori, but it's how that story starts. _

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><p>This is the story of how Rorimac Brandybuck drunkenly tried to marry a stolen cow and almost started a feud between several Shire families that Bilbo Baggins and Paladin Took failed to mediate and only ended when their grandmother stabbed a haunted chair. But before we can get to that bit of the story, we have to find out how a story like that even became possible. Just look at that description, that's a story that needs several other several just to explain why it exists, but luckily we're just going to have one.<p>

If the Shire regularly interacted with the rest of Middle Earth, their biggest embarrassment would probably be the Great Cow Dilemma. Every race has one or two members or incidences that they're not particularly proud of – infighting is always embarrassing – where a part of their nature they'd prefer to pretend didn't exist was exposed in a flaming fall of grace (unless they managed to cover it up in time). For hobbits, one of these instances – the largest and longest – just so happens to be a ongoing feud over a cow, of all things.

Well, it wasn't _really _over the cow, but the cow was conveniently there and became an important fixture despite not being the true crux of the matter. So it _was _over the cow... sort of... at least, it _started _with the cow... sort of.

It started, in actuality, with a gentle soul known as Mister Mowell.

Mister Mowell – actually named Mo Wells – was a kind and hardworking hobbit who lived just outside what might be considered the 'Hobbiton town' on the Wells family farm. It was an odd place, somehow split _precisely _down the middle by a small creek, with crops on one side and goats on the other. Mister Mowell maintained it almost all on his own; he did well by it and it did well by him.

He wasn't from an old or respectable family, no, the Wells were generally content to stay on their farm, raise their stock, and reap their crops. Mister Mowell stayed out of what might be called 'hobbit high-society'; he left anything to do with paperwork to other people (_trusted_ people), married his childhood sweetheart from three farms over, and contented himself with seeds and goats like his father before him and _his _father before him.

Petunia Wells – Mister Mowell's childhood sweetheart and wife, also known as Mistress Mowell – was a very pretty, slightly spoiled, but _very _sweet and good-hearted lady. Mister Mowell loved her with everything that he was for everything that she was and he could never deny her anything. They were married for a very happy, very wonderful eleven-and-a-half years before Petunia died due to complications in childbirth.

Mo Wells was left with identical twin daughters, Tulip and Ivy, to raise entirely on his own, which he tried to do – the Wells had a history of one sons siring one sons. Unfortunately, Tulip and Ivy Wells were as much the spitting image of their mother as they were the spitting image of each other; Mister Mowell could rarely deny his daughters anything and the Wells twins grew up to be true _brats. _

Many a hobbit had a pitying thought or glance for Mister Mowell, who worked so hard to be as good a father as a farmer, but only had a pair of constantly-bickering, spiteful daughters who hated each other to show for it. He was a one son from a long line of one sons and knew nothing about raising little girls – which isn't actually that different to raising little boys, but no one told _him _that.

"Poor Mister Mowell, 'e looks so _haggard _don't 'e?"

Running a farm almost alone (save for a few hired hands) while trying to mediate between two beloved but very _bitter _girls would do that to a hobbit.

"There's a hobbit who doesn't look as though he's slept for a week."

He might not have. Some hobbits occasionally claimed, after suffering horrible encounters with the Wells twins, that they could still hear the nagging in their nightmares. And one had to remember that poor Mo Wells actually had to _live_ with them!

"Bloody hills, am I grateful I don't have girls like _that_!"

If Tulip or Ivy Wells couldn't be considered shrews, then no one in all of Middle Earth could be considered a shrew. They were _the _shrews. From the instant they stopped being fauntling brats they were shrews; they always wanted more than what they had and thought the other sister was trying to steal what they had from them.

However, despite their moderate familial respectability and temperamental natures, the Wells twins made _very _good marriages into _very _respectable families. Being bossy, interfering, nosy, hateful, spiteful, nagging, and gossipy was more or less in perfect tradition of high-society hobbit matrons, after all. One only had to look at the Bracegirdles and Bagginses to realize that, for the hills' sake.

So, Tulip Wells married Harto Proudfeet and Ivy Wells married Bomen Prodfoot. Their wedding parties were... competitive in their organization. Both women wanted to wear one of their late mother's dresses and serve their great-grandmother's lemon cake recipe at the celebration, which ended with screaming, a torn dress, a shredded recipe card, and a pair of unhappy, unrepentant Wells twins.

The rest of the affair organization continued in a similarly awful fashion. It was truly horrible, and their grooms probably would have made a run for it if they weren't prideful, snide arses themselves.

Mister Mowell looked very stressed during both ceremonies, as though he was afraid someone would call off, and then he looked impossibly relieved afterwards. He was likely very grateful his beloved but shrew-like daughters were finally gone... er, settled down as their new husbands' problems... er, wives.

After the consecutive weddings, Mister Mowell retreated back to his farm where he probably planned to peacefully spend the rest of his days. His neighbours remarked that they had never seen the hobbit so relaxed before. And didn't he have the loveliest smile when it wasn't an apologetic grimace?

That lasted about six months, then Mistress Tulip Proudfeet and Mistress Ivy Prodfoot each got it into their heads that their father ought to do something about the matter of future inheritance. As Mo Wells had no close relatives and no male progeny, that meant that his things would be going to his daughters when he died. Mistresses Proudfeet and Prodfoot were quite determined that it would be _them _and _their _husband who got their hands on the fertile and profitable Wells farm.

It didn't seem to matter to either of them that their father wasn't close to dying anytime soon – he wasn't _that _old, although the nagging seemed to have done quite a number on him. They wanted that farm and so they started their campaigns for it promptly, never mind that their behaviour wasn't an especially _tasteful _thing to do.

Nor was it entirely all that _respectable_ , honestly. But it was a family matter, something not to interfere in, so the Shirelings kept out of it. (Also... Tulip Proudfeet and Ivy Prodfoot had only gotten _worse _with their marriages into the upper half of hobbit society, and no one quite wanted to be the one to have their ears shrieked off for suggesting the women cease their siege.)

Time flounced by; Mistresses Proudfeet and Prodfoot let up _slightly _in their badgering, and Mister Mowell's hair got grayer and his face looked tireder. Misters Proudfeet and Prodfoot got dragged into the matter as well after a while, their wives' competitive nature and their pride making them desire the Wells farm with increasing wanting.

Coincidentally, Mister Mowell became quite good at being hard to find. In fact, it might have been suggested once or twice that Mister Mowell had one of the best Unnoticeable knacks in the Shire, if not for the fact that his daughters were far too good at Noticing him. If they knew he was in the immediate area, they would find him; the sheer importance of their inheritance to them pierced through poor Mo Wells' knack.

Everything was fairly all right though, because as the new Mistresses Proudfeet and Prodfoot, Tulip and Ivy _did _have their own affairs to see to. Mister Mowell ran his farm fairly unimpeded most of the time, when his daughters weren't around telling him to make a will already, Harto Proudfeet wasn't over _insisting _he was a bit of a farmer himself and _did _actually know how to use a trowel (he didn't), and Bomen Prodfoot didn't show up offering to _help _with any accounting while pretending that he _wasn't _terrified of goats.

Life went on.

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><p>No one was quite sure how the Lobrivers had gotten into the business of making, holding, and carrying out wills. (The Lobrivers knew, but the story didn't cast them in a good light, so they pretended they didn't.) It was just generally assumed that they'd always been in the business of putting people's wills and dying wishes down on paper. (This was more or less true, except it was missing the part where the first Lobriver to get into the business was a complete crook who'd started at it to scam people.)<p>

You see, not all hobbits could read all that well – or read at all; writing was well out of the question for a good number of them – but the Lobrivers were _excellent _readers and writers. Mainly, they _could_, and owned lots of fancy-looking books to show for it. So common hobbits had started going to the Lobrivers to have their wills written down all official sounding, then the high-society hobbits got into it because they couldn't stand their important documents being less pompous-sounding than the 'less-respectable' families.

Now, Dimal Lobriver, many-times descendant of the first Lobriver to start writing wills, handled just about every bit of documentation that Hobbiton spawned. He wrote wills out for people for a fee, he held onto the wills for a fee, then he collected another fee for being the only one not intimidated by the long-winded, eloquently-worded cursive he used. He'd learned the trade from his father and was teaching it to his own son, Idam (whose script was so clean and elegant that common hobbits were afraid to touch the paper and Dimal was very proud).

When Mister Mowell came up to Dimal Lobriver two years after his daughters' weddings with one handful of papers and one handful of money, saying that he'd written his own will and wanted Dimal to hold it, well... Dimal basically only wrote down what other hobbits dictated to him at the end of the day. This was a little odd, but not entirely unprecedented. Dimal would just take the will and rewrite it in elegant cursive and they could go over it alone or with the recipients and send out copies for holding and-

Oh. Well, apparently not. Mister Mowell insisted that the papers stay exactly as they were and that nobody should look at them until he was dead under the daisies. Well... that was more unprecedented, certainly not the usual order of business... But who was Dimal Lobriver to refuse a fistful of money and a promise of some of the best Wells farm cheese? Mister Mowell made excellent cheese.

Dimal noticed how Mister Mowell never told his daughters that he'd made a will, or that he visited Dimal's office every six months to review it and update it himself. But what Mister Mowell told his daughters wasn't any of Dimal's business, since he was honour-bound to keep his clients' affairs private even without incentives (but his wife might kill him if she lost her new reputation for serving some truly excellent cheese dishes).

So, it wasn't the usual order of business... but, well, cheese.

* * *

><p>Eventually, the Shire found themselves on the eve before Tulip Proudfeet and Ivy Prodfoot's 50th birthday party, somewhere <em>exactly no one<em> wanted to be. (For some inexplicable reason, Tulip and Ivy had decided to make it a joint affair, even though they hadn't done that since their infamously awful 20th birthday and the women utterly despised one another.) It was sure to be a disaster.

It was a disaster, but that's not important.

What _is _important is that the eve before this day was the night when Mister Mowell unexpectedly died in his sleep before he had to attend. It was considered terribly tragic, because Mo Wells had been a kind and gentle soul, but with rather excellent timing.

What kind of birthday party ends with all the food not burnt, which might have just been considered a cooking accident (which was quite shameful among hobbits, truthfully), but actually _ablaze_?

But that's not important.

What _is _important is that a week later, Mister Mowell had been buried and his daughters and their husbands and some Wells farm workers were impatiently waiting for Mister Dimal Lobriver to read the will. And that Dimal Lobriver, instead of reading, was staring at the will with a slightly horrified and rather gaping expression.

To be fair to Mister Mowell, he _had _been a farmer, and _his_ reading and writing education hadn't been by the most literate of people (his father, also a farmer).

"Well? Go on!" Tulip Proudfeet said unhappily.

"Get on with it!" Ivy Prodfoot sniped at the same time.

Harto Proudfeet and Bomen Prodfoot didn't say anything, but they both crossed their arms and made harrumphing sounds at the same time. The Wells farm workers shuffled where they stood, having declined standing in case Mister Mowell's will was about to make his daughters... _displeased _and they had to make a run for it.

"Er..." Dimal said, scanning the page in front of him and wincing several times where it seemed that Mister Mowell had had particular difficulty holding the writing utensil. "Uh... yes... Let's get on with it then."

So Dimal got on with it, stuttering in several places where words had been vicious misspelled by someone who knew the right sounds but not the letters or where the letters didn't seem to know which letters exactly they were supposed to be. He rewrote and cleaned up documents for other Shirelings all the time, but this was a new level of terrible handwriting that suggested feet had been involved somehow.

Thankfully, the will was fairly simple. Mister Mowell left a few bequests to his longtime workers, such as bundles of extra pay, a couple goats, some tools, and other little things. The workers nodded their understanding and left in short order, only _slightly _slamming the door in their haste to leave Dimal with the increasingly impatient Proudfeets and Prodfoots.

Then the will basically became two lists: everything that went to Tulip and her husband, and everything that went to Ivy and her husband. The Wells farm split pretty much perfectly in half by the creek down the middle, and Mister Mowell had clearly put a lot of thought into the things he divided between his daughters. There was nothing for the daughters to really argue about, much less contest. Tulip Proudfeet and Ivy Prodfoot had never learned to accept anything with grace and without envy or jealousy, and it seemed that Mo Wells had prepared for this; the hobbit appeared to have two of everything.

By the time Dimal Lobriver got to the bottom of the will, he was ready to sigh in relief that he and his home would escape the wrath of the Wells twins. There was only one tiny last note left now.

_Probably just Mister Mowell urging his daughters to stop fighting one last time_, Dimal inwardly guessed.

Dimal, unfortunately for his hopes and dreams, inwardly guessed _wrong. _

The last note on the will was Mister Mowell bequeathing the final bit of property he had left to give, almost like he'd nearly forgotten about it. It seemed that he had two of everything – two of everything except... two cows.

Mister Mowell only had one cow, which was a respectable amount of cow considering that he was a turnip farmer and kept goats, and also that cows are terrifyingly _large _when you're a hobbit. Having more than one of anything that big could easily be considered asking to get yourself trampled or stepped on.

This particular cow had belonged to Petunia Wells once upon a time, and its name was Dot (called Dottie). Mister Mowell had often claimed that his Dottie's milk made the best cheese in the Shire, and anyone who'd ever had Wells farm cheese couldn't find it in themselves to disagree. So this cow was a fairly valuable cow, both sentimentally and monetarily.

By the beginning of the sentence, Dimal could already feel a shiver of doom going down his spine. By the time he got to the last word, he'd had to unexpectedly stop.

"Well?" Tulip Proudfeet demanded loudly, "Which family does the cow go to?"

Not because he didn't want to say which family the cow went to and thus start a screaming match between the Wells sisters that might leave him with hearing issues until he died...

"Spit it out!" Ivy Prodfoot shouted.

Well, of course he didn't want that, but that wasn't why he stopped.

"Just read it, lad!" Harto Proudfeet yelled.

Dimal Lobriver looked up at the Proudfeets and Prodfoots – why, oh _why _did those names have to be so similar? He cleared his throat, partly just to buy himself time before he had to tell them...

"I can't."

Bomen Prodfoot scowled. "What?"

"I can't read it," Dimal said softly, setting the paper down on his desk. "I can't tell what it says."

Tulip jumped out of her seat and snatched up the paper. "Well!" she announced after a quick moment, "that _clearly _says the cow should go to the Proudfeets."

"Nonsense!" Ivy declared, grabbing it from her sister and reading over the paper. "That _obviously _says the cow _definitely _goes to the Prodfoots! Can't you read?"

"I can read just fine! It _says _Proudfeet, you imbecile!"

"No, you illiterate idiot, it says Prodfoot!"

"Are you blind?"

"Are _you_?"

"It says _Proudfeet!_"

"PRODFOOT!"

Dimal let his head drop to his desk and _did not _whimper.

It escalated vastly from there to a brief shouting match that lasted two hours and culminated in an almost fist-fight. Dimal had Unnoticeably left the office one hour and forty-five minutes ago, and the match only stopped when Lilac Lobriver entered and interrupted to ask if the Proudfeets and Prodfoots would be staying for lunch.

They wouldn't; they had a Thain to see.

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><p>It was pure coincidence that Gerontius and Adamanta Took weren't at home that day, instead taking tea with one of their daughters and her family. So the Proudfeets and Prodfoots went all the way to the Thain's empty smial, giving Dimal Lobriver's son Idam enough time to burst through a green door, blurt out an unintelligible warning from his father, then faint dead-away from the effort of running the entire way to Bag End.<p>

Belladonna looked down at the tween boy on her parlour floor.

"Bungo, darling," she called calmly to her husband in the kitchen, "get back in here, please. I think you have a caller. And that it's somewhat urgent."

Gerontius Took harrumphed and grumbled: "Younglings these days."

"Yes dear," Adamanta agreed solemnly. "I do hope he hasn't hurt himself. Now, do you recommend two sugars with this particular brew, Bella dear, or three?"

"Three. It can be somewhat bitter. Oh, Bilbo!" she noticed as her son entered the room carrying a tray of biscuits and scones. "Did you put that lovely plate together all by yourself for your grandparents? Well done!"

"Mum, why is a boy falled on the floor?" little Bilbo Baggins demanded flatly.

A clang came from the direction of the kitchen, as though someone had dropped something, which was followed by a pained yelp. "THERE'S SOMEONE FALLEN ON OUR FLOOR?" Bungo shouted incredulously.

Belladonna sighed.

"Yes, dear, so would you _hurry up_?"

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><p>Half-an-hour later, Gerontius Took and Bungo Baggins had gathered in Dimal Lobriver's office in secret, having used their knacks to keep the nosy gossips of Hobbiton none the wiser as to their location. Their wives had declined getting involved, since neither of them were technically Thrain or the unofficial Hobbiton mediator, and they fully felt their husbands were perfectly capable of handling any Proudfeet and Prodfoot affair.<p>

(Belladonna didn't want to go and Adamanta wasn't done doting on her grandson.)

"So let me get this clear," Bungo said carefully, leaning forward in his seat. "You can't determine who the final bequest on Mister Mowell's will goes to because it either says Proudfeet or Prodfoot but it's _just _illegible enough not to be able to tell which one..."

Dimal Lobriver closed his eyes and exhaled deeply. "That's correct."

"And now the Proudfeets and Prodfoots are on the warpath over who gets to own a _cow_?"

"That's correct," Dimal repeated.

Bungo sat back in his chair and muttered something unintelligible and probably unrepeatable under his breath, then he put his head in his hands and said: "I'm moving to Buckland."

"Buckland?" Old Took demanded, sounding deeply offended. "_Buckland_?"

"They'll suspect Tookborough because of Bella, so they won't look for me in Buckland. My family will be able to live in peace there," Bungo explained very seriously, but Gerontius just looked immeasurably ashamed and disappointed.

Dimal stared at each of the two hobbit men, slightly disbelieving. He handled wills and inheritances, he _knew _how stubborn and hard-headed and awful hobbits could be over this stuff – the tantrums he'd lived through, oh Valar, the _tantrums –_ but moving house and home seemed to be going too far to him.

The Lobriver was fairly certain that Tulip and Ivy didn't actually care about the cow so the problem should blow over soon enough, the awful women will find something else to argue about and that'll be that. Dimal says as much to other two.

Gerontius fixed Dimal with an unimpressed gaze. "Son," the old hobbit said, "You haven't dealt much with those girls, have you?"

The shiver of doom was back and Dimal shook his head. "Well... no," he admitted. "But it's a_ cow;_ despite the sentimental and monetary value, neither Wells daughter really cares about the thing. Give them a month or so to stop screaming, come to an agreement, and that should be the end of it. That's how it's worked with them in the past, yes?"

That's how it's always worked for any upsetting inheritances in the past, especially when outside consultants and mediators (the Thain, Bungo, various head of families) had to be called. Dimal, knowing how horrid the Wells twins were, just wanted to give these two a warning as to what was coming. He hadn't actually invited them back to his smial; honestly, he wasn't sure what they were actually doing here.

It was probably his son's fault, whom he had sent to give the warning. Idam did always have a flair for the dramatic, the little bugger.

"They didn't have anything like _this _to argue about before. Nothing this solid and equally divided in both their favours – their families' prides are going to get involved," Bungo said wearily. "We're not going to hear the end of this one for a _long _time."

"But it's a _cow_!" Dimal insisted again, a little desperately, still trying to deny the horror that he could feel Fate unfolding. Oh, Yavanna, he wouldn't even be getting any cheese after this now that Mister Mowell was dead – Lilac was going to _kill _him.

"This is about much more than a cow, boy," Gerontius grumbled ominously. "The Proudfeets and the Prodfoots have been antagonizing each other since those shrew girls married into them. Those witches have been brewing up a feud for years; both families – because of those nasty girls – have been waiting for something like this for awhile now. It's going to be ugly."

Dimal dropped his head into his hands. "But it's a _cow_," he whispered.

"No," Bungo corrected. "It's a _symbol_."

Gerontius nodded. "Welcome to the world of politics, son."

"_What,_" said Dimal.

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><p>Bungo and Gerontius went back to Bag End, leaving a miserable Dimal muttering about cows and bemoaning something to do with cheese. The two hobbit men sat in the parlour, eating leftover cakes and drinking a fresh pot of tea, while Belladonna and Adamanta chattered about Donnamira and Mirabella's (Belladonna's sisters) latest troubles in the kitchen. But this was more than just returning to a tea party, this was a meeting during which civil unrest was looming in the distance.<p>

"We've got to tackle this headfirst," Bungo said bluntly, setting down his saucer. "If we leave this issue alone, it will fester and come back to bite us. Forward charge, that's how we ought to do it."

"Damn right," Gerontius agreed heartily.

For a long moment, neither of them said anything. The only sound in the pleasant receiving room was that of Bilbo Baggins orchestrating an epic battle between his toys, which was apparently not going well for either side going by the dramatic wails of anguish and shrieks of pain the fauntling was whole-heartedly imitating.

(Bilbo _loved _Bella's adventure stories a little too much; Bungo worried for his child, he really did.)

A shout of laughter came from the kitchen as mother and daughter shared a moment of mirth. The sounds of their excited and delighted chatter echoed through the smial, followed by the high squeaks and squeals of Bilbo and his warring armies.

"Let's flip a coin," Bungo suggested.

"Fine by me," Gerontius agreed, reaching for another cake.

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><p>Bungo lost; he swore a lot.<p>

Gerontius was too busy being victorious to care, but Adamanta was very unimpressed.

Belladonna thought it was funny.

Then Bilbo repeated some of the more... _uncouth_ words he'd heard his father say.

Belladonna wasn't so impressed anymore.

(It was mostly for appearances' sake though, since her mother was present. Although she would have preferred to be the one to teach Bilbo how to curse. These Bagginses didn't know how to do it right, which could have been why Adamanta had looked so unimpressed, actually. Probably not though.)

* * *

><p>As the unofficial Hobbiton mediator, Bungo went off to settle the matter between the Proudfeet and the Prodfoot families. He went off with utterly no hopes or expectations of succeeding in managing to accomplish anything – which was good, because if anything, things only became worse.<p>

"They don't want to hear solutions, Bella – they don't care about _solutions_. They don't _want _any solutions, they just want to cause as much pain, misery, and humiliation to each other as possible and don't care about what they have to do it," Bungo told his wife one night in bed.

Belladonna yawned. "Just put your foot down and shove the solution down their throats."

"I tried that," Bungo said gloomily. "It isn't working. I could spend ten years coming up with a plan on what to do with that cow, perfecting it to get rid of anything they'd find fault with, and they'd find something to complain about within thirty seconds. Those hobbits _hate _each other, Bella."

"Tulip and Ivy? That's no surprise. I never liked them."

"No – well, yes. Those two hate each other, but they've _infected _the Proudfeets and the Prodfoots with their hate now. I feel threatened being in the same room as the groups, I'm so worried that someone's going to throw a rock and then everything's going to end up on fire. _Again._"

"That was a _terrible _birthday party," Belladonna mused agreeably. "Just go to sleep, dear. I'm sure you'll find a way to solve this, even if you have to vanish the cow in the middle of the night."

"They'd only accuse each other of stealing it. I think we should move away to Buckland."

Belladonna gasped in horror. "_Buckland_?"

"What's wrong with Buckland? Your sister's a Brandybuck now!" Bungo protested.

"_Buckland_," the Took scoffed. "This is _your _problem, sir, since you seem to like responsibility so damn much. You better have bloody hills upon hills of a case for you to suggest something that desperate for our family. _Buckland_, really."

Bungo thought about it for a moment. "Tulip Proudfeet and Ivy Prodfoot? Twins right? I can't tell them apart. I haven't called either one of them by the right name _once_. I think they switch on me so they can shout more and make demands."

"They're surprisingly cooperative for people who hate each other," Belladonna agreed. "But we're still not moving to _Buckland! _Your built me this smial and I intend to stay here come hail or high-water – so we're not moving. Not over a _cow_, we're not!"

"I told you, it's not _about _the cow!"

"GO T' SLEEP!" Bilbo screamed at his parents from several doors down the hall.

* * *

><p>Hobbits are incredibly stubborn and hard-headed; the Shirelings can have fearsome tempers and be utterly irrational about some matters. But usually, in most cases, the root of the issue can be easily found and the problem can be simply solved. Sure, grudges can be kept for decades sometimes, but generally hobbits do not enjoy open fighting or other such disruptive, not at all respectable things.<p>

But Tulip Proudfeet and Ivy Prodfoot didn't care – at last, they had something to properly fight over, and fighting over it was exactly what they did. They screamed, yelled, shrieked, sneered, scratched, bit, and hollered at each other over the matter. They even got their families to back them up and then participate. Yavanna help any poor hobbit who tried to get between them.

Bungo Baggins quickly became known for diving behind vegetable stands or into bushes, then making himself Unnoticeable at the mere perceived _sign _of Missus Proudfeet or Prodfoot (they were identical in appearance and equally awful in temperament). He also formed a habit of avoiding _any _Proudfeet or Prodfoot. No one blamed him for it, even if it wasn't precisely _respectable _behaviour of a gentle-hobbit.

The biggest issue was that _there was no solution_. The will was utterly unreadable, no one could tell whether it said Proudfeet or Prodfoot, but _something still _had to be done with the cow while the two families bickered over it (but not _really _over it). And the problem of the cow just added to the problem that was the Proudfeets and Prodfoots, who were taking any excuse to keep screaming at each other.

See, the cow had to stay _somewhere_. But it couldn't stay with the Proudfeets because then the Prodfoots would kick up a fuss, and it couldn't stay with the Prodfoots because then the Proudfeets would start yammering. And the cow couldn't be in the custody of _anyone else _because it was a family matter and therefore everybody else should mind their own business. (Never mind that the Proudfeet and Prodfoot families did their best to get _everyone _involved and _on their side _in the matter.)

When Bungo begged his father-in-law to intervene because he was so _very _out of his depth, the Old Took had to go over the heads of Tulip and Ivy to their husbands. The Thain called in every last favour and bit of authority he had with those snobbish boys, but eventually Gerontius got them to agree that they'd each take the cow for equal amounts of time until the matter was settled. Then he flipped a coin; the cow would go to the Prodfoots first and the Proudfeets second for a month each.

The matter should have calmed down then and there, but Tulip Proudfeet and Ivy Prodfoot were ready for something like this. The Proudfeets worried that the Prodfoots weren't caring for the cow properly – everybody knew that the Prodfoots could be criminally negligent sometimes. Didn't Dottie the Cow look a little sickly to you?

Then the Prodfoots got angry about defamation of the character, then didn't think they could hand the cow over to such loud-mouthed liars as the Proudfeets. Which was followed by the Proudfeets intentionally ruining the food and water the Prodfoots gave to the cow, along with a few other things, that all culminated in the Prodfoots stealing the cow back in the middle of the night six weeks later.

So it _was _about the cow in that it _wasn't _about the cow – the cow was just an important tool and piece that Tulip Proudfeet and Ivy Prodfoot were using to start a feud. Honestly, the only real solution would be for the Wells twins to just drop dead, and both of the women were too stubborn and mean to die. Death wouldn't have them.

Anyway... repeat agreement with similar shite from both families for two more months.

Extend holding period to two months each in the vain hope that it will persuade the Proudfeets and Prodfoots to slow down and possibly _calm _down. Unfortunately, absence only makes a Wells twin more angry, contrary, unpleasant, and uncooperative. Proudfeets and Prodfoots are no longer acknowledging each other in public venues and continue to tamper and meddle.

Repeat secondary agreement; pray for a miracle and be horribly disappointed. Somebody got so sick of the bickering families that they'd offered to pay full price to both families for it and been _turned down _by the _insulted _Proudfeets and Prodfoots.

Repeat secondary agreement again and give up any remaining hope that a sane solution will ever be found or implemented.

Repeat.

* * *

><p>Dimal Lobriver stared down at the will that had started all this cow business seventeen months ago now – this awful, <em>awful <em>will with that final word that was _still _illegible. All of the other words were clear enough once your eyes adjusted and with strong use of context, but this _final word _refused to be deciphered and had chained him to the Wells twins' feud.

He'd lost count of the number of times he'd been called up by Tulip Proudfeet or Ivy Prodfoot to show the will and give his opinion. (As a neutral party, which was necessary for his business, he didn't have an opinion, had never had any opinion, and wasn't going to be having one anytime soon, thank you _very much_.) It happened increasingly sparingly now, but each incident was always more awful than the time before it, _always_, which was equally impressive and depressing.

The Lobriver also made and held all the papers for the matter now: signed agreements on who was holding the cow and how much water could be taken from the Wells farm creek in a week by either family. Yes, they'd discovered quickly that signed and witnessed _clearly written _papers were the only way to ensure that most of the Proudfeets and Prodfoots underhanded behaviour was kept at bay.

Oh sure, life just went on for_ everybody else_, but Dimal had to keep a eye open at the market lest he be seen by one of the Proudfeets or Prodfoots then be lectured on the sins of the other family. He'd also lost count of the number of times they'd tried to bribe him, which wouldn't be happening because favouring one family for even an instant wasn't worth the reaction from the other family.

He, Bungo Baggins, and Gerontius Took were _stuck _dealing with the Proudfeets and Prodfoots _at least _two or three times a month now. Maybe more if Tulip Proudfeet or Ivy Prodfoot took it into their mind of being particularly awful for a time.

Dimal wanted his lazy Sundays _back, _damn it!

The worst part of it was that deciphering the final word wouldn't _do _anything anymore. The Proudfeets and Prodfoots wouldn't believe it; they would contest it and argue and it would just make everything start over freshly again. The Shire was stuck with a bickering, hollering, screaming, shrieking, fighting Tulip Proudfeet and Ivy Prodfoot _forever _now.

Oh – oh _Yavanna –_ could it be?

Could Mo Wells have created this indecipherable word on _purpose _just to leave the world with a never-ending taste of the worse curse he'd suffered in life? No, no, of course not – no hobbit was that cruel... was he?

The cuckoo clock in the living room chimed two o'clock, alerting Dimal of the damned fact that he was due to meet Bungo soon for _another _mediating meeting between the Proudfeets and Prodfoots. The Lobriver shuddered at the horrifying experience that awaited him. He could hear the shrieks and screams of the Wells twins already.

"Do you hear that sound, dear?" Dimal said woodenly to his wife.

Lilac, sitting next to him on their parlour sofa, looked up from her book and frowned. "Hear what sound, love?"

"The sound of Mister Mowell laughing from his grave."

"Sorry, love, I'm afraid not," Lilac answered, carefully putting a bookmark between the pages to mark her place. She closed the book at placed it on the side table, then stood and brushed off her dress. "Due for another cow meeting then? I'll get your papers case."

Dimal sighed. "Thanks, dear."

Lilac made a humming sound as she left the room, quickly coming back with the case that Dimal used to carry papers in to and from important meetings. He had one specifically just for the Proudfeet and Prodfoot cow business now, an old beat up brown leather bag, which Lilac opened and placed on the low table in front of him.

"Thank you, dear," Dimal said, shuffling the papers on his lap and putting them carefully inside. He closed the case and stood, picking it up and moving to the front hall where Lilac was already standing holding his coat to help him into it. "Thank you, dear."

Once Dimal was standing by his open door ready to leave, Lilac patted his slumped shoulder and kissed him on the nose. She put a hand under his downcast chin and forced it up, brushing off closet fluff with the other hand.

"Thank you, dear," Dimal repeated. "If I don't return, know that I love you."

"Chin up, you ridiculous man," she said. "This silly business can't last forever, love."


	2. Thirty-Four Years Later

Disclaimer: Don't own it; not profiting off it.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Two: Thirty-Four Years Later...<strong>

_This is the story that Bilbo tells Ori. _

_Sort of. _

* * *

><p>In the dead of night, a lone hobbit drowsily ambled through a dark house. He hissed in pain as he stubbed a toe against something in the blackness, his tired eyes unable to see anything without the candle he<em> knew<em> he should have lit and taken with him. For some idiotic reason, he'd assumed that getting a glass of water wouldn't require light. _Stupid. _

He stumbled against the wall and seethed for a moment, then blindly felt along for the window he knew was close; he found it and clumsily undid the latch to let moonlight flood the shadowy room. The hobbit leaned against the window sill, enjoying the cool night breeze and the peaceful sight of an open, empty field drenched in moonlight.

Wait.

Open, _empty_ field?

The hobbit hurriedly blinked the tiredness out of his eyes, and leaned all the way out the window in his hasty staring search for the large shape that _should _have been out there. But no matter how far he leaned or how carefully he looked, the field, of which he had a clear and complete view, was still empty. In fact, in the moonlight, he could clearly see a wide open gate with a wide open latch.

_Shite_.

He jumped back into the house and ran stumbling towards a closet, knocking over several pieces of furniture in his haste to fling it open. The hobbit grabbed the bell his father had told him to use in case of emergencies like this, to let the family know they needed to gather and gather quickly, and he rang it as hurriedly and as loudly as he could.

"MA! DA! HURRY! UNCLE OMY! AUNTIE ELL! COUSIN BOS! THEM PROUDFEETS ARE AT IT AGAIN! IT'S GOOOOOOONE!"

* * *

><p>Rorimac Brandybuck would readily admit to anyone that he could be a bit of an idiot – well, not to his sister, Prim, or to his mother (because he was fond of being alive with all limbs attached, thank you), but to anyone else, yeah. It was a requirement of young hobbits to be a bit stupid, and Rori's mother was a Took, so he had the idiotic antics of his cousins to meet and beat lest he lose face among the Tooks and other young hobbits.<p>

Which is probably why he's waking up in a field wearing a dress, a cloth flower wreath with a veil, and with the world's wickedest headache. His eyes are stabbing his brain (ow) and his mouth tastes like _feet _(ugh)_, _and the corset of this dress is digging into his back in the most _awful _way _(fucking shite _ow). Unfortunately, his body feels too lethargic to solve any of these problems, so he's just going to close his eyes, lay here and suffer horribly.

He's _never ever _going to drink again, except... he could also _totally do _with a drink right now. Just one, or two, or three – just to dull the ache behind his eyeballs.

"What _happened_?" groans the nearby and familiar voice of Jago Boffin, Rorimac's best friend and first cousin. Then comes the close sound of Jago Boffin retching, something that Rorimac, as Jago's best friend, is also very familiar with.

"Bloody hills if I know, bloody hills if I _care_," someone else groans in reply – it sounds like Eddard Shropp, another of Rorimac's friends and a champion grouser. "Someone just come get Gordson's fat _drunk _arse off me."

Ah, Gordson Tobhern, good guy – a little on the heavy side, even for hobbits, but the nicest bloke you'll ever meet by anyone's standards.

"Limal! Limal Lobriver! You there! Get up and help! No, Gordy, no – don't you dare vomit on me, you bloody shite! AIM AWAY! BLOODY HILLS, AIM _AWAY_! LIMAL, HELP!"

"Uhh... what?" Limal replies groggily, just as Gordy makes the most wretched, horrible exploding gurgle sound that _cannot _be good news for anyone in the vicinity. Just _listening _to it makes Rorimac want to toss up whatever he has in his stomach – just _remembering _it is almost as bad.

"If anyone cares," Eddard remarks cuttingly. "He thankfully missed me. Limal, you're useless."

Limal sighs. "I know."

"Where am I?" Gordy groans. "Who're you? Who'm I? Where're you?" Then comes another series of lunch-losing sounds, followed by: "Oh, wait... never mind. I'm good."

"Why Rori, cuz," Jago says dryly from somewhere directly above Rorimac, "Don't you look an _absolute picture_! What's the occasion?"

Rorimac opens his eyes to see his cousin standing with one hairy foot on either side of him, grinning down with blotchy red eyes that say, _I very recently got very drunk, _and a gleeful expression that says _I am going to remember this for all time and you are never going to live it down ever. _He looks like shite, but is, unlike Rorimac, dressed messily (his shirt is on backwards) but normally (it's _his_ shirt).

"I think... I think I got married," Rori answers honestly, searching his spotty, shitty, definitely-not-sober memory for what happened to lead to him in a dress and a veil. "And I think you officiated."

"Huh," Jago says. "Was I any good?"

"You were very drunk," Rori replies. "And so was I, so I don't think it matters. I remember crying at one point, so it could have gone either way, good or bad. Help me up? Slowly?"

Jago grabs Rori's offered hands and says: "Nah." Then the absolute arsehole pulls Rori upright as quickly as he can manage, sending hammering pains through the Brandybuck's skull and awful curse words on his tongue. Rori tries to sit back down, but his shite cousin won't let him.

"I fucking hate you," Rori says.

"I know," Jago replies with an awful smile. "That's for insisting that another _five _drinks couldn't hurt, cuz, and _then _for breaking out a barrel of Took ale and a case of Old Winyards Pritchard wine."

"I don't remember that."

"Whoa!" Eddard Shropp shouts, which sends flickers of hurt through Rori's head and he _sees _Jago wince at the volume. "Who was the lucky bride or groom, Brandybuck? Or is it something else now? Rorimac Boffin, maybe?"

"First _cousins_," Rori reminds Eddard, turning around to see his three other friends standing about in various stages of disheveled clothing and hungover expressions.

Eddard's hair is shiny and sticking straight out at odd angles and he's grinning widely at them despite sporting a colorful bruise on one side of his face and a black eye on the other (dressed normally). Limal has his hands on his knees (his clothes are normal but inside-out) and Gordy is staring vacantly at the sky (his clothes are normal but torn slightly), but both of them give Rori curious glances and quickly burst into laughter then groans of pain from said laughter.

"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up," Rori grumbles (why _is _he the only one in a dress?). "Does anyone actually know what happened?"

"I don't remember anything after trying to ride pigs," Limal answers, then reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out a handful of furry white and gray creatures. "Does anyone know why I have mice in my pocket?"

"When were pigs involved?" Gordy wonders. "I don't remember any pigs. I only remember something about needing fresh apples and stumbling out to go get some. Did we ever find those apples?"

Eddard frowns. "I'm not sure. I think we found turnips instead and got into a tug-o-war with goats, but that might just be a drunken dream. All of this sounds like a drunken dream and my mother is going to kill me," he announces. "Where the bloody hills are we?"

Rorimac looks around, tries to walk forward, and nearly trips over the skirts of his dress. Jago catches him before he can fall, but the bones of the corset dig further into his ribs and shoulder blades. Rori swears and straightens the dress, ignoring Limal's giggling and Eddard and Jago's open smirks. Then he hitches up the skirts and makes his way forward again.

"There's a sign of some sort this way," Rorimac tells them. "Come on. Yavanna knows what time it is-"

"It's about dawn, I think," Gordy says.

"-and even knacks aren't going to help us sneak back anywhere if somebody notices we're missing and calls a search for us."

"Good point," Jago allows calmly, while thinking fearfully of his knack-sharp Took mother. He quickly follows his cousin and friend; Eddard and Limal glance at each other, then stumble hurriedly after them both, and Gordy follows at a more sedate place.

Rorimac reaches then squints up at the sign. "Fuck, we're on Bollogger property."

"Bollogger property?" Eddard nearly shrieks – why is he always so _loud?_ "How did we get to Bollogger property? That's across the Water! And if Dollo Bollogger finds us then we're dead!"

"We're already dead," Jago says woodenly. "There's no way we'll get home without being seen."

"It's going to be a _looong _walk home," Gordy groans.

"Seriously, does no one know how I ended up with mice in my pockets?" Limal demands.

* * *

><p>"YOU WERE ALWAYS JEALOUS THAT FATHER LOVED ME BEST, YOU HORRIBLE COW-STEALING SHREW!" Ivy Prodfoot screamed, waving her cane in her sister's direction, held back by her husband.<p>

An identical hobbit woman, the sister, spat in Ivy's direction. "I NEVER STOLE THAT COW, YOU LYING, CHEATING, FARM-GRUBBING WRETCH!" Tulip shouted back, held back by her own husband. Unwilling to be outdone by her sister's vicious cane-waving, she threw her own cane towards the Prodfoots, where it caught Ivy's eldest son in the forehead and he toppled backwards.

Ivy didn't pay this any mind though, she was too busy yelling: "WHO'RE YOU CALLING A LIAR AND A CHEATER? YOU'VE CHEATED ME OUT OF WHAT'S PRODFOOT PROPERTY AND NOW YOU FILTHY PROUDFEETS ARE LYING ABOUT IT! DAMNED THIEVES!'

"OH, _RIGHT_! WHY DON'T YOU HIDE SOME MORE THINGS AND CLAIM I STOLE THEM TOO, EH?" Tulip shrieked. "WHY NOT JUST BLAME THE PROUDFEETS FOR EVERYTHING? SEE WHAT YOU CAN GET? GREEDY SNOBS!"

"STICKY-FINGERED _ROCK FARMERS_!" Ivy hollered.

All the hobbits gathered in the massive hall gasped at the horrible slur. Even Tulip Proudfeet looked a little stunned. Then the Proudfeets all puffed up in indignation and offense, then started shouting over each other to defend themselves and insult the Prodfoots right back. Which, of course, in true manners and etiquette, just had all the Prodfoots screaming back.

* * *

><p>The walk home <em>is <em>long, but it's also suspiciously quiet. They keep off the paths and out of clear sight, but they still should see one or two hobbits out and about. Instead, they don't have to make the slightest use of their knacks because they encounter and see absolutely no one. Smoke still pour out of chimneys, but otherwise it's like the Shire is absolutely deserted.

"Something's wrong," Jago announces.

Eddard jostles him with a shoulder. "Don't question our good fortune, Boffin. I'm not about to complain because things are going our way and neither should you."

"Jago's right though," Limal says softly and Eddard shoots him a betrayed look. "This is suspicious."

"Well bloody hills if I care," Eddard replies. "I'm going home now. Goodbye friends, let's get together again sometime soon but let us not repeat this particular experience." And with that parting shot, Eddard stomps off in the direction of the Shropp smial with a waving hand over his shoulder.

Gordy, Limal, and Jago all turn to look at Rori.

"What?" says Rori. "He's right. We can worry over whatever the hills is happening here _later_ – for fuck's sake, I'm still wearing a _dress_. And I am at least 76 percent sure that this is my great-grandmother's wreath-veil-thing, a family heirloom that I could _die _just for having breathed on. Unless someone remembers something _horribly important_ about last night, I'm going to go change so this ribbing doesn't choke me. Whoever made this thing clearly hasn't heard that _breathing room _is a thing now."

"I think your bosom is just too big, mate," Jago quips.

"My bosom is perfect. You're just jealous you couldn't pull this off if you tried. Farewell, arseholes! Until we meet again," Rori declares, then hitches up his skirts again and heads off towards home with his flower-wearing head held high, leaving Gordy, Limal, and Jago behind.

"He does look damn good in that," Limal says after a brief silence.

"It's the shoulders," Gordy replies knowledgeably. "He's got the shoulders needed to pull of that particular neckline cut. Narrow shoulders would swim too much in that fabric."

"It matches his eyes too," Jago comments. "I wonder who he married. I remember him crying about dying alone now that his sister's got that sweetheart of hers, then... I don't know. What happened after that?"

"Damned if I can remember," Gordy grumbles.

Limal shrugs. "It was probably a goat or something just as stupid, going by the fragments I can remember. Come on, I've got to get home before my uncle wakes up from one of his naps enough to Notice that I'm missing. He'll get me to rewrite and organize old wills again."

* * *

><p>In the doorway to Hobbiton's meeting hall, Bilbo Baggins and Paladin Took stand with wide eyes and open mouths at the chaos in front of them; Hamfast Gamgee and Anson Goodchild are shuffling nervously behind them. Paladin has to duck as a carrot spins through the air towards his head, and an off-target turnip rolls to a stop in front of Bilbo's feet.<p>

Vegetables are flying through the air, and in the middle of shouting, angry, vegetable-throwing hobbits, is a circle of hobbits being an audience to a fist-fight between two eighty-five-year-old hobbit ladies. Tulip Proudfeet cracks her twin across her wrinkled face, the hobbits cheer, and white-haired Ivy Prodfoot spits out blood and punches her sister in the stomach. Another round of cheers and boos go up, and someone definitely calls out something like, "Rip out her dentures, Auntie!"

"No," says Bilbo.

"Absolutely not," Paladin agrees.

Then the two of them turn right back around and attempt to walk straight out of the meeting hall, but Hamfast quickly grabs Bilbo and Anson latches onto Paladin immediately. Hamfast is stronger than Bilbo is, so the Baggins can't get away, and while Paladin is older and stronger than Anson, the Goodchild has a damned good grip on the Took's legs.

"Oh, _come _on," Paladin whines, gently trying to kick Anson off. "If Gramps is too _old _to get his old bones down here for this business, then I'm too young to die. I have a father! I have uncles! _Seven _of the bastards. Get them to come handle this nonsense! I'm not Thain! I have no experience! I'll _die_!"

"But you're going to be Thain, Mister Took, sir!" Anson insists, down where he's got his arms wrapped around Paladin's shins. "And my da says that experience has to start somewhere."

"Well it can start somewhere that's not Proudfeets and Prodfoots!" Paladin snaps, then he glances over at where Hamfast seems to be tightly holding onto someone who isn't there. "Damn it, Bilbo! If I'm not getting out of this, then you're not getting out of this! You've dealt with them before!"

Bilbo Baggins unhappily flickers back into Notice and glares, thoroughly betrayed, at his gardener, who looks apologetic but unrepentant. Bilbo shakes off Hamfast's grip and straightens his waistcoat, then takes a deep breath.

"Still no," he says, then tries to make another break for it and promptly gets hit in the back of his head by a tomato. The Hero of Hobbiton overbalances and falls forward on his face before any of them can make a move, tomato juice and guts dripping into his hair.

In response to this, Hamfast and Anson (still holding onto Paladin's legs) stare, and Paladin bursts out laughing and is justly taken out a second later by a wayward bundle of celery. The Took goes down hard.

* * *

><p>Rorimac doesn't make a habit of going out and getting extremely drunk – much, anyway. He was a Brandybuck with a Took mother, an of-age hobbit with his whole life ahead of him, and he was perfectly within his privileges to regularly go out and have a little fun before he had to do something <em>responsible <em>like _get married _or something equally awful.

So Rorimac did make a habit of going out and having fun – intoxicating substances were preferred but not required – and therefore relied on Unnoticeably sneaking back into his family's smial through the unlocked back door in the mornings. He was sure his parents had a suspicion at least of what he got up to, but everyone seemed happy pretending otherwise as long as Rorimac otherwise appeared respectable and did his chores.

Rorimac didn't expect the back door to be locked for once, but he's not really that surprised. He woke up wearing a dress, is _still _wearing said dress, and he got the hint that today was not going to be his day; he might be an idiot, but he's no fool.

He tries the windows first (not a fool, remember), then gives up finding another way in along with the last of his dignity, and knocks on the back door. Luckily, it's not one of his parents who opens the door, but unluckily, it's the next worse thing.

"What the bloody hills are you _wearing_?"

"Hullo, Prim."

"Is that grandmother's wedding dress?"

"Possibly."

"And great-grandmother's _flower wreath veil_? The one Mother threatened to kill us for _breathing on_?"

"I think so."

Primula Brandybuck puts her hands on her hips, looks him up and down, then sighs heavily.

"It's not fair you look better in that than I would," she says, stepping aside. "Come on in. You're lucky Mother and Father aren't home to see you, there's apparently something big happening down at the meeting hall that couldn't be missed."

Rorimac hitches up the skirts again and steps inside, nodding to his younger brothers, fraternal twins, fourth and fifth eldest, Saradas and Dodinas, at the kitchen table as he goes. Saradas' fork freezes halfway to his mouth and Dodinas has a sudden coughing attack that is so violent that their youngest brother Dinodas comes running and trips over his own feet when he catches sight of Rorimac.

"You _glide _in that," Primula says indignantly, ignoring Saradas thumping the choking Dodinas on the back. "Why do you _glide _in that? It's so smooth, _fuck –_ I can't believe I'm jealous of my _brother_'s ability to walk in a dress."

Dodinas spits out a piece of radish across the room, which Dinodas unfortunately puts a foot on as he climbs to his feet. The youngest Brandybuck's foot immediately slides with the regurgitated radish and his face thumps into the floor again.

"Ow."

Saradas, now that his twin isn't choking, stares in horror at Rori again. "Why in the bloody hills are you wearing a bloody dress, Rori?"

"I got married, I think," Rori replies casually, moving to help Dinodas to his feet but the youngest Brandybuck scrambles backwards from his eldest brother in a dress so quickly that he trips again. He looks so terrified that Rori backs away with his hands up, and only then does the poor, floored (literally) kid start breathing again.

"Who'd you marry?" Saradas asks, brows furrowed.

"Haven't a clue, but since Jago officiated, I think it's safe to say the wedding was a farce."

"I was planning on wearing that to _my _wedding," Amaranth, the third-eldest after Rorimac and Primula, groans as she enters the kitchen. "Now I'm forever going to be haunted by this memory and _actually _want to scrub myself clean of it. Oh, hills, you even took the wreath. Mother is going to kill you for that."

"I'll put it back and she won't even notice," Rori scoffs, waving a hand aside as though he has absolutely no concerns, which is a complete lie because_ he honestly fears for his life_. But he needs to keep his cool and act like he's going to live if he wants to keep his reputation among his younger siblings. (Prim's not buying it though, he can see her eyes narrow.)

"Yeeeah," Dodinas says, wiping away the last bits of radish away from his mouth. "I don't think that's going to work, brother."

"Why wouldn't it?"

"There's a bite out of the veil at the back."

"_What?_"

Prim darts forward and grabs the wreath and attached veil from Rori's head – normally hobbits had real flower wreaths ag their weddings, but their great-grandmother had been allergic; horrible thing for a hobbit. She rifles through the ruffles of the veil and takes in a shocked breath.

"He's right," she says, showing Rorimac and the rest of the Brandybuck siblings.

Rorimac is too frozen with _oh Yavanna, oh Valar, I am very much, totally, completely going to die for this _but the rest of them move forward to get a good look. In his haste, Saradas knocks his plate of food off the table and Dinodas trips on the mush trying to get up.

"Oh _wow_," Amaranth breathes. "That's – that's a rather large bite."

"Would _somebody _help me up already?" Dinodas snarls, and Saradas turns away to help the littlest of them up so he too can stare at why Rorimac is soon to die.

Rori looks at what will be the reason for his death and _yes, that _is _a rather large bite. _No hobbit made a bite like that; no hobbit's got a mouth _half _that big. Well, not literally at least.

"Maybe the question is _what'd _you marry, rather than who," Prim quips, looking entirely too amused for the _utter seriousness of this affair. _There is a bite in a family heirloom and it's Rorimac's fault, their mother is going to _bake him into a blueberry-hobbit pie for this. _

Then she might serve it for supper with a smile, or maybe at lunch, or as an afternoon snack with tea and cakes. And that will be the end of Rorimac Brandybuck, and all the hobbits will say things like, "Poor hobbit damaged a family heirloom and his mother turned him into pastry. I knew that pie tasted strange. Oh well."

_Wait, what. No, actually, what in the bloody hills is he even __**thinking **__right now? Whatever he smoked last night, he's not smoking that again. _

"Yeah, but _what_?" Dodinas asks, interrupting Rori's _insane _thoughts. "I mean, I wanna know now. If Rori went off on another night of epic drunken shenanigans, then it could've been _anything_. Like, _actually _anything."

"A pig?" Dinodas offers, finally managing to get to his feet.

"A goat," Amaranth snorts.

Saradas claps his hands in glee. "A pony!"

"No!" Dodinas says with an exaggerated shudder. "A _Baggins_!" Then he and Saradas break into raucious laughter; they've never approved of Primula's sweetheart, Drogo.

Prim just scowls, which promises dire retribution in their futures. Primula takes after their mother the most out of all of them; she doesn't get angry, she gets _even. _Which is why Rorimac is actually going to die for this.

_He is going to die and none of them are taking this seriously. _

"I am going to die and none of you are taking this seriously," Rorimac says. "Mother is actually going to kill me for this and I hope you sob at my grave."

"Uh huh," Amaranth says. "So, when do we get to meet the in-laws?"

"I AM ACTUALLY GOING TO DIE, YOU-"

"SOMEBODY'S GOING TO DIE!" Asphodel, the second-youngest, squeals as she bursts excitedly into the house through the back door. "THE MEETING HALL IS A MESS BECAUSE SOMEONE STOLE THE PROUDFEET-PRODFOOT COW AND NOW THEY'RE FIGHTING OVER IT! THEY HAD TO CALL MAD BAGGINS AND THE THAIN –Grandfather sent Cousin Paladin instead, though – AND EVERYBODY'S IN AN UPROAR! IT'S – why is Rorimac wearing a dress?"

* * *

><p>Jago Boffin connects the clues, flipping through his hazy memories of last night, while his little sister is chattering away at him about <em>everything <em>that's been happening in his absence. It's frankly, not his proudest moment of realization, as he nods and gives brief replies when Jessamine stops to breathe.

"Uh huh."

_There's something about a cow at the edge of his mind-_

"That's nice, Jess."

-_at the bottom of a pile of sludge in his memory that comes with the immediate recall of the strong smell of strong booze._

"Daisies? That's terrible."

_What is it? _

"Mmhmm."

_Oh. _

"Oh _shite_," Jago says.

"I _know, _how could she even _think _of kissing him after he'd done something like that is _beyond _me! I mean, she _knows _I like her. Well, that I _did. _I definitely _don't _after _that... _Jago? Where are you going?"

"TO FIND A RUNAWAY BRIDE AND UNDO A MARRIAGE!" Jago yells, pulling on his coat in the front hallway and running out the door. "DON'T WAIT UP!"

* * *

><p>Bilbo and Paladin are seated at a table at the end of the meeting hall, with Proudfeets on one side of the room and Prodfoots on the other. Most of Hobbiton seems to have invited themselves along to witness this (and participate in throwing things, because apparently it's <em>fun <em>or something) and are crowded around wherever there's space, though none of them dare to get between the fiercely glaring Proudfeets and Prodfoots.

Bilbo Baggins stares at the hall floor, which is completely covered in broken, bruised, rotten vegetables and the odd fruit or two. He doesn't quite understand how this became his life, but he regrets leaving Rivendell more than anything else in his life right now. He should have never talked himself into the idea that he actually missed this place.

They only _just _got Tulip Proudfeet – nursing a bruised jaw and carrying a nasty glare – and Ivy Prodfoot – who has nail scratches _on her face –_ to stop fighting. And Paladin is currently with a bloody nose to show for separating two eighty-five-year-old brawlers; he's bleeding into Bilbo's third favourite handkerchief now, while the entire hall is silent as the Proudfeets and Prodfoots glare at each other.

A lone parsnip sails through the air from one side of the room to land in front of the long table of Proudfeets, who, before anyone can process anything, are all standing up with assorted greens in hand ready to throw. Some of their chairs have tipped over, they stood up so fast.

Bilbo sighs. "Mister Shrubbins, the vegetable throwing is _over _now, thank you. This is your last warning. If it happens again, you'll have to leave."

"Sorry," calls a hobbit from behind the Prodfoot table. "Sorry, Mister Baggins. I got excited again."

"I know, Mister Shrubbins. Don't let it happen again," Bilbo admonishes, then turns his attention to the rest of the hall. "Now, is anyone going to _sit down _and _apologize_ for their _not at all respectable behaviour_, or are we all going to just have to wait a while longer _while our tempers continue taking some time to cool_?"

The Proudfeets slowly drop back into their seats, the vegetable missiles disappearing back to wherever they'd been stashing them. A pumpkin that had suddenly appeared on the table somehow vanishes, to where exactly, Bilbo is certain he doesn't want to know. (Across the room, he also spots a bundle of asparagus discretely disappear into a Prodfoot's jacket, so that's a disaster avoided.)

Tulip Proudfeet still looks like she'd punch her sister rather than stop glaring at her, and Ivy Prodfoot sneers hatefully. Since the Proudfeets and Prodfoots are following the leads of their matriarchs, it seems that no one is going to apologize before the sky falls. Tempers are also probably never going to cool – this nonsense has lasted thirty-four years and at least four cows, it's not going to stop here – but Bilbo doesn't expect them to.

"Dey aren'd gunna apologuize," Paladin whispers with an Unnoticeable warble to his tone, still with blood-covered handkerchiefs stuffed up his nostrils. He looks ridiculous, and _sounds _ridiculous, and also still has a surprisingly large piece of lettuce in his hair.

"I know," Bilbo answers quietly, shifting his knack to make his voice Unnoticeable to everyone but Paladin. He picks another piece of dried tomato guts from his hair; ugh, it's going to take forever to get out properly.

"Wad are you doing den?"

"Gillyflower Tobhern has her annual summer party tonight that half of Hobbiton is going to be attending, anyone who's anyone is going to be there. Before this nonsense, it was all anyone was talking about for weeks. You know how Mistress Tobhern is, nobody will be allowed to miss it and nobody will want to."

Paladin's eyes narrow. "You're sdalling."

"Of course I'm stalling," Bilbo mutters, rolling his eyes. "The cow has gone missing before. We just have to keep them from killing each other and setting any major fires until it turns up again, or until Hobbiton gets tired enough of this nonsense to secretly buy a new one for them _again_."

"Ah," Paladin says, then: "How mud longer undil the pardy?"

"Four hours at least."

"We can live dat long."

"That's what you thin- MISTRESS PRODFOOT! HAND GESTURES LIKE THAT AREN'T PERMITTED IN THIS HALL, THANK YOU. MISTRESS PROUDFEET, PUT. THAT. PUMPKIN. _DOWN_."

"Squash," Paladin corrects.

"I _do not care_."

* * *

><p>Eddard Shropp bursts into the Lobriver smial; his hair is a half-tamed mess and he's changed clothing, but he still has a bruise on one side of his face and a black eye on the other. It only takes him thirty seconds to locate Limal, who is sitting at his dining room table feeding pieces of his lunch to the mice he'd found in his pocket this morning.<p>

Eddard freezes; Limal looks up.

"Oh, hi Ed," Limal says. He's also washed up and changed his clothes. "What's happening?"

Shocked back to business, Eddard glares. "Okay, three points. Firstly, _why did no one tell me I looked like I lost a fight_? I didn't even _know _I_ had_ a black eye to explain to my Aunt Eggie when she caught me sneaking in this morning."

"Oh dear."

"Secondly, I – no, I have to ask this _now_. Why haven't you gotten rid of the mice?"

Limal shrugs. "They're cute."

"You're ridiculous," Eddard sighs.

"I know," Limal replies.

"_Original _second point: the Proudfeet-Prodfoot cow went missing last night, an-"

"AHA!" Limal shouts, making all of the fluffy mice – Limal probably gave them a bath, the odd idiot – on the table squeak. "I _knew _my uncle was hiding Unnoticeable under a wheelbarrow in the back garden for a reason."

Eddard takes a moment to properly take that in. "_What?_"

"Well, he usually only does that when the Sackville-Bagginses are lurking nearby," Limal explains, returning his attention to and petting the squeaky mice. "And why my great-uncle has locked himself in the cheese pantry again. I wanted to get some to feed to the mice, but he refuses to open the door for anyone except my great-aunt, and also might be sobbing, but it's a thick door so I'm not entirely sure."

"This is the strangest, least-professional thing I've ever heard in my life," Eddard announces.

Limal shrugs again, uncaring. "You'd be surprised. What was the third point?"

"Oh, right. I think _we _might have been the ones to steal the cow," Eddard confesses. "Because I remember turnips and a tug-o-war with goats, possibly in a creek, which describes the Wells farm pretty well. No pun intended."

Limal doesn't even look that surprised. "Well... that explains the hoofprints I found on my shirt." He looks back up at the absolutely _exasperated _Eddard. "I've been wondering."

Eddard sighs again. "Limal, you're _unbelievable._"

"I know."

* * *

><p>The silent glaring has stopped, which isn't actually a good thing, because that means they're talking now. When it comes to Proudfeets and Prodfoots, trying to get them to talk out their issues like responsible, respectable adults is pretty much the <em>worst <em>option available. Responsible left five minutes into the conversation and respectable never came in the door.

It's Tulip Proudfeet time to talk now and she's been talking for seventeen minutes; Bilbo Baggins appears to be listening intently while mentally composing his grocery list and Paladin Took is playing a game of some sort which involves him muttering a count under his breath every ten seconds or so.

"Eight-six," Paladin mutters, while Bilbo tries to remember whether he used up the last of his cinnamon spice making rolls yesterday.

"Eight-seven," the Took says, five seconds later, while Bilbo decides that no matter the case, he could probably use some more cinnamon anyway. He never got to eat any of those rolls; Olly Millwater came over and ate a third of them, then Drogo came in to whine about how his secret sweetheart (Primula Brandybuck, which _honestly everybody _knows) will never love him and ate the rest.

Bilbo wanted some of those rolls; he's going to make more and hoard them, so he'll definitely need to get more cinnamon. He could use some more ginger too, come to think of it. Drogo ate the last of his ginger cakes also, the little love-struck brat.

"Ninety-three," Paladin counts in a whisper as the volume of Tulip Proudfeet's rant goes up again, sounding reluctantly impressed.

Bilbo needs new cousins.

And also more sugar and honey, come to think of it, if he's going to be using more of it up. Hmm, definitely on that. Fosco and Ruby are coming over for dinner later this week, and Drogo will probably spend the night eating all of Bilbo's sweets and quietly brooding.

"Ninety-eight," Paladin mutters, "ninety-nine... aaaaand _one-hundred. _It only took her forty-three minutes, too. Oh, one-hundred and one."

Bilbo gives in. "What _are _you counting?" he whispers with an Unnoticeable warble.

"Number of times she slips in a direct insult to her sister or the Prodfoots in her speech about why Proudfeets would never do anything like steal a cow because of how honourable and respectable they are," Paladin whispers back. "One-hundred and two, by the way."

"Ah," Bilbo says, because he's done that before, then goes back to thinking about whether or not he should replace his salt and pepper spices while he's feeding his younger cousin through the sheer agony of unrequited true love.

Maybe he should get new cousins, it'd be cheaper.

* * *

><p>Jago isn't hard to find. In fact, Jago finds <em>them <em>by bursting to the Lobriver smial screaming in one breath: "I THINK WE STOLE A COW; WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE; HAS ANYONE TOLD RORIMAC YET?!" He has them out the door within a minute of slamming it open.

Gordson isn't hard to grab either, all they have to do is knock on the door and he's following them without even asking what they're doing. Eddard explains what they all think happened, and Gordy's only response is: "It's better than helping my mum organize her party."

(Ed: "But we could all _die _if anyone finds out."

Gordy: "I have had to dust behind the dresser twice and the inside of our cellar cabinets four times since sneaking home; the party is happening outside. This. Is._ Better._"

Limal: "But _why_-"

Gordy: "I DON'T KNOW _WHY._")

Rorimac is the last of them they've to fetch; silently they've all agreed that they aren't discussing anything, besides brief comments on their oncoming deaths and how screwed they are, until all of them are together again. Also, since Rori was the one in the wedding dress, they've all collectively but silently agreed that the collective fault of the drunken night lies the _most _with him probably.

Amaranth Brandybuck opens the door to the Brandybuck smial and says: "Oh, thank Yavanna. He tried to go charging off in the dress and now he's hiding under the bed convinced he's going to be killed the second he steps outside because Asph lied to him for her own amusement that the Proudfeets and Prodfoots know it was him that had something to do with the disappearance of the cow."

By the end of the sentence, she's manhandled them all into Rorimac's bedroom before they can say anything, then disappears. Limal, Gordy, Jago, and Eddard are standing a few steps in the doorway and just _have _to stare at Primula and Asphodel Brandybuck laying on the bed talking at the bit of skirt that hasn't been pulled fully under the bed.

"And if they _don't _chop off your head and rip out your guts to use as turnip fertilizer, then your emptied corpse as a scarecrow and general warning to any other hobbits on drunken misadventures," Asphodel is chattering happily, "allowing you to survive by some miracle of mercy, you're _definitely _going to have to pay them a spousal price. I mean, you didn't do _anything _to show your new beloved that you can provide for them!"

Primula snickers quietly into the sheets. "Asph is right, Rori. It's _not _the act of a _respectable _hobbit, eloping like that. I mean, all of the courting and wedding business out the window? Tsk, tsk, that foreshadows some awkward family dinners in the future. OH RORI! You're _going _to have to attend _Proudfeet and Prodfoot family get-togethers! _I've heard they're just _wonderful_!"

Wow, this is cruel and unusual torture and Limal has never been so glad that he's an only child in all his life. It's horrible to watch but he can't look away, or move, so he's grateful that Jago manages to step forward and clear his throat.

"Oh, Rori, your friends are here to save you," Primula says, like she's disappointed. She probably is disappointed; Rorimac's always told them that his sisters really are _that _evil but Limal hasn't believed the stories until now. (So, _so _glad about the only child thing.)

Asphodel blows a raspberry of disappointment, then she and Primula flop off the bed and move to leave the room. As they leave, Asphodel calls out: "Y'know, I was lying about them knowing." The bed thumps, like someone tried to leap up in outrage and forget they were _under a bed_, and the two Brandybuck sisters go down the smial hall cackling wildly.

Jago goes over to the bed and looks under it. "You've got shitty siblings, cuz," he says consolingly to the lump of skirts trying to wriggle out of from the bed.

"Just get me _actual clothes, _please," Rorimac mumbles miserably.

* * *

><p>Five minutes into Ivy Prodfoot's rant about <em>exactly why <em>the Proudfeets are the _exact _sort of people who would steal a cow, Paladin is bored with counting insults and he can't keep up anyway. He's fiddling with a nail in the table for ten minutes, which is still boring yet somehow entertaining enough to do it for ten minutes, when the nail comes free of the wood.

Well, there goes _that_ exciting activity.

Paladin considers the nail in his hand for a bit, then considers the table in front of him. Then he looks over at his cousin, who has his chin in one hand and his eyes glazed over. He pokes Bilbo in the thigh (with his finger, not the nail), and Bilbo looks over expressionlessly at him.

"You want to play Tic-Tac-Toe?" Paladin asks.

Bilbo looks over at the Proudfeet and Prodfoots and the now mostly-empty hall; hobbits quickly began to flee for their lives and more exciting things once it seemed the violence of fist-fights and vegetable-throwing wasn't coming back. (Bloodthirsty _cowards_.) The Proudfeets and Prodfoots still look as outraged as ever though, except a few of the youngest ones, and none of them are paying attention to the two hobbits supposed to be mediating them.

They're going to be here awhile.

Possibly until their deaths, Paladin is inwardly trying not to convinced himself of. He'd really like to see his children again someday, yell at his grandfather for being too old to come (such a horrible lie), scream at his father and uncles for passing on the 'responsibility' (read: horror), and then maybe collapse sobbing in his wife's arms from the sheer trauma of this awfulness.

"Sure," Bilbo says. "Don't cheat."

"I would _never!_" Paladin whispers, voice warbling Unnoticeably but _definitely _offended._ "_I'm not even actually sure how I could." He's not even lying in that statement as he takes the nail and scratches out a tiny board for them. He's never properly contemplated how to cheat at Tic-Tac-Toe.

Bilbo snorts. "You're a Took; you'd manage."

"I really would," Paladin admits.

* * *

><p>"So," Rorimac says once he has trousers on a shirt on again. "What're we doing?"<p>

"Trying to find your runaway cow-bride," Jago replies seriously. "Which I can't actually believe I got to say in my lifetime without lying, you absolute _walnut_. Come on, before something happens to it or somebody finds out we stole it."


End file.
